Ophion/Juliette
As the guests waltzed on the dance floor, Ophion was left with a creeping feeling of regret. If there was anything he didn't yearn of the noble life, it wasn't this—parties and dances, arranged marriages, fake smiles and hollow words. Yet here he was, out of some misguided sense of duty and family representation.
He finally escaped the nonsensical blathering of a crazed Kapur relative to retreat to his own quiet sanctuary. Leaning on a wall, he watched the happy partygoers from afar. In all the movement around him—the dancers spinning incessantly, too familiar and all wrong—his hands felt too still. He reached into his pocket in search of a cigarette, something for him to do. His fingers found his lighter and cigarette, while his eyes scanned the room for the nearest exit. One hand still on the silver lighter, fingers rubbing its engraving of three familiar glyphs, Ophion began to make his way out and didn't care to watch who he passed along the way.